Vortex of Insanity
by Balanced
Summary: So he laughs too, to avoid thinking about the pang in his stomach, or how, when his eyes go to hers one final time, he sees something in them that scares him, just a little. Snapshots of a ship called Wuddy.


A/N: Snapshots of Wuddy, chapter one.  
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, and that's probably a good thing. 

**_Eyes_**

He can feel the fatigue work its way through his body. It starts at his shoulders, so he rolls them, trying to untangle the muscle, but then it spreads to his neck-his own silent reminder that working 9 a.m. to 4 a.m. has repercussions that have nothing to do with a lonely wife at home. He briefly closes his eyes and a wave of relief washes over him almost instantly. He's _this close_ to being done reviewing Mrs. Land's file, then he can finally take off. For a moment his thoughts go to Bonnie. _Maybe_, he thinks, _if I stop for flowers…_

But what's open at 4 a.m.?

A sharp knock shatters his train of thought, and he calls, noticing his weary tone, "Come in."

The door swings open.

At first he thinks that maybe working so late isn't quite that bad, because sometimes, when she does her hair before coming in, she looks really…well….pretty, if he's honest with himself. But then he notices a stack of, probably, ten folders in her arms and a seriously angry frown. She drops the stack on his desk with a resounding thud, and moves her hands to her hips.

"Do you have any idea what this is," she asks, her normally brilliant blue eyes dark with annoyance.

He eyes the files. "I get the feeling that I'm going to regret asking this, but does this have anything to do with House?" It could be his imagination, but he's pretty sure the crick in his neck just grew.

Her face breaks out into a deeply sarcastic smile. "These, Dr. Wilson, are patient complaints," she replies, spitting out each word. "Would you care to venture a guess as to who they're regarding?"

Something between a moan and a yelp escapes his lips, and he drops his head into his hands. "I'm sorry, Lisa," he says. He hopes she can hear the sincerity behind the mild frustration coupled with exhaustion. "I'll talk to him."

She sighs, collapsing into a chair in front of his desk. For a moment they're both silent, causing him to wonder, through the thick fog of fuzziness behind his eyes, why she's still sitting there. It's instinct more than decision that makes him ask, "Is everything okay?"

"Do you think it's always going to be like this?"

He looks up to meet her eyes, and tries his best to shrug. "It's got to get better," he guesses. "I mean, he's only been here a week." Though Cuddy is right-it feels like a lot longer. "He's just got to get into the swing of things."

"Two of those files," Cuddy says softly, "include patient's letters, threatening to hit him with their cars."

Wilson looks up. "Really? What do you think the odds are of two completely separate people using same method of murder? And a creative-" Off her look, he clamps his mouth shut.

"You're his best friend," she continues, like he hadn't added anything to the conversation at all. "You're the only person he'll listen to. Just, for my sanity, at least convince the man to stop threatening patients with invasive and painful tests if they don't give honest histories"  
"Will do," he says quickly. He likes talking to Cuddy-he does-but if he can just get finished with Mrs. Land he could go to bed…

It's this thought that is crossing his mind when he raises his eyes, and notices hers tearing up.

Fantastic.

He stands, allowing his body to follow the much-practiced ritual, and pulls another chair around, so that he's sitting to her left. Every day he goes through the same motion, but this time it isn't pity that fills his heart, but something else entirely.

He gives her a minute to offer an explanation, and when nothing comes, he finally prods with, "Lisa?"

At that, she breaks into out-and-out sobs, and drops her head against his shoulder. If the circumstances were different, he thinks, he'd notice that her hair smells likes granny smith apples, and how perfectly she seems to fit, resting against him. He'd notice that her breath smells like Winterfresh gum, and that even with body-shaking sobs, she's still the most put-together person he's ever met.

But tonight, instead, he just murmurs, "Talk to me."

At the words, he hears her sobs subside, and she pulls back, brushing her tears away. She apologizes, stumbling over the words like they don't mean anything. "I'm just tired," she says, laughing self consciously at how the evening has played out.

So he laughs too, to avoid thinking about the pang in his stomach, or how, when his eyes go to hers one final time, he sees something in them that scares him, just a little.


End file.
